Red- צבע אדום
by Lipush
Summary: Justice is served following Bodnar's demise, but it still doesn't mean Ziva's demons are gone for good. A secret she keeps from the team, concerning a small boy's wellbeing, might influence her relationship with the people surrounding her, and her view of the world.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't know why my latest ideas are of angst and nothing like romantic fluff. I guess this is going to be my first attempt of having something which isn't pure fluff or pure angst or pure humor, will probably touch all, but mostly I'm here just to tell a story. So, yep.**

**Even though this story may touch some disturbing issues, I don't think it should be rated M, because I'm not going to take it _that_ far yet, even if it'll get pretty close. writing Chekhov's Gun, I had it clear that certain subjects, by theme itself, are, and should be rated nothing less than M, but this is not the case.**

**This is partly my own story, partly invented plot; you'll figure it out as the story continues. I entered my own experience dealing with PTSD into this, because that was required for me to be able to really put myself into the story.  
**

**I don't own NCIS, needless to say it.**

**Please read and review.**

* * *

**First Chapter-**

_March 2011, 1:47 PM, Shappirah Blvd, Ashkelon, Israel_

It was a cold rainy day. The sun broke through the dark clouds every once in a while, but just barely. The school-day was over earlier than usual, due to elections for the students-council. 7-year-old Ta'ir held onto her older brother's hand, while they crossed the street separating the nursing home from the local clinic, on their way back home.

Pouring rain took them by surprise this morning, covering the sidewalk with muddy puddles. Frolicking happily, she squirted through them enthusiastically, spreading water all over herself, giggling at her sibling's wrinkled nose; "Enough, Tair'i," the boy called, "mommy won't let us into the house like that, all covered in mud".

Ignoring her brother, Ta'ir ran about, leaping, jumping and skipping between puddles, holding her precious doll close to her chest. Her brother rolled his eyes, but didn't scold her this time. 'Perhaps she'll tire herself out, and won't fight with him over the computer games today?' he thought to himself. He preferred not to overpush her, "Just watch out from passing cars, mom said not to cross the road alone!" he warned the girl.

Holding onto each others hands, they crossed the road together, minutes later. As soon as they passed the pedestrian crossing, Ta'ir's gaze turned to her left, the fresh aroma of pastries from "Avichai's Bakery" causing her to almost drool. He was an old religious man who used to sneak _separated Challah_ for the children every once in awhile, when his wife wasn't looking. He asked of them to not tell on him to old Hilda, because she'll probably 'Smack him with the broomstick' once she found out her precious Challah leftovers were not given as tribute for the poor people of Ashdod, but donated offhandedly to the hungry mouths of spoiled little children.

Avichai didn't place the fresh warm buns on the stand outside, this morning, and was probably working on cleaning the ovens; those used to exude burned smells of onions and wheat that scared off stray cats, and unfortunately, potential clients, as well. Ta'ir smiled at her brother, and suddenly, her stomach released a slow, furious rumble.

The boy chuckled at his young sister- "C'mon," he said, "I'll warm something up for us once we get home".

The next street was crossed in comfortable silence, as they passed the local playground. Two more blocks around the corner, and they're finally home. Today, _Morah Tova_ gave a lot of homework, and he hoped to finish them before it darkens outside. Mommy won't let him play ball with the other boys at the block after sunset.

New energy bursting through her, Ta'ir jumped forward suddenly, about to leave her brother's eyesight; "Ta'ir, wait up! Don't run!" he called after her, but the young girl just giggled, running through the street. "Come catch me!" she called, laughing, just barely turning around to make sure she's not losing him, then turned to run again, "You'll never catch me!" she chuckled.

"Ta'ir! You know mommy said you shouldn't!" he all but pouted, "I'll tell mommy, and she'll punish you!"

The girl shrugged once, kept jumping and leaping between puddles.

Becoming annoyed, the boy wanted to yell that she should stop and wait for him, that she'll get him into trouble, when suddenly- a long whistle could be heard from a distance.

Ta'ir came into an edgy halt, stopping on the spot, blinking furiously. Turning around to look at her brother, her expression changed rapidly. The innocent happy laugh on her lips vanished completely. The sparkle in her eyes disappeared. She gulped.

Holding her doll close, her face conveyed hesitation. Anxiety. Fear.

The boy's eyes widened, as he tensed abruptly, "Ta'ir, run!" he screamed, panicked, fearful, "Don't freeze! Run! Run! Ta'ir, move, RUN! _RUN_!"

His sister's eyes expressed sadness. Acceptance. The whistle was too close.

The skies stood cold and deafening.

The leaves on the trees didn't even rustle.

But the whistle was way too close.

Both children knew that.

There was nowhere to run.

The explosion was heard all over the city.

The boy's body flew back from the blast, hitting the sidewalk mercilessly.

And Ta'ir…

Ta'ir was no more.

* * *

**Today-**

Silence envelops the small apartment as Ziva David takes last arrangements before leaving her place; The living-room's curtains are just slightly open. The rifle, the knife, and the usual gear are correctly placed before leaving for work.

Warming up her cup of fresh coffee, her eyes run about the apartment, once she realizes there is something missing. Someone missing, indeed.

With a sigh, she turns into the interior room, opening the door slowly, the shutters are closed and the light is turned off.

The small bed is unoccupied.

Switching the light on, she kneels next to the bed, removing the blanket covering the space between the soft colored wood and the matted floor. She peeks inside.

There, lightly shaking, covering his ears with both hands, lies a young 10 year old boy. Seeing her, he blinks, almost embarrassed.

She releases a sigh, "What's wrong?" she asks, patiently.

He shrugs, removes his hands from covering his ears, "You slammed the door," he answers feebly in Hebrew, "I got scared", he admits, biting his bottom lip, somewhat ashamed.

Closing her eyes tightly, Ziva scolds herself, nodding, "Not, that's ok," she says, "don't sweat it, It was my bed, I…forgot" she admits awkwardly.

Stupid, stupid fool.

How can she forget? For the third time this week!

"You need to leave?" the boy asks, hesitantly.

"Yes," answers Ziva seriously, "Doctor Artzi will come and pick you up in a few minutes".

The boy sighs. He _hates_ Doctor Artzi. He keeps bringing that tape to their meetings. He knows he gets scared, but doesn't care at all.

He _hates_ that tape.

"I don't want to see him anymore" the boy practically whines.

"_Chamudi_, you know he just tries to help you. That is what they told at the ministry of interior that you have to do, if you wish to stick around with me."

"He's weird".

"I know".

"He has strange toys at his office".

"I know".

"He looks at me funny".

"I know you think that, but I doubt that's true. He just wants what's best for you. You know that".

The child nods. Well, he knows _that_.

"Tell you what," Ziva said, rationalizing, "I'll speak with him, tell him to give out that tape idea, if you keep those sessions you have together in check. Help him to get you all better. For you, not for him".

Thinking for a moment, he exhales, nodding; he has nothing to lose, right? "Ok," he gives up.

Rising to her feet, "_Yeled Tov_" she praises, lifting off the blanked.

"Get out from under the bed, Nehorai."

* * *

_**TBC...**_

**A/N- I don't know how many chapters this will take. Unlike my previous works, which are not that many, I don't have a start-finish obvious end in mind, once I feel this is reaching the spot where I am comfortable with finishing it, then I'll end it. So... you're welcome to keep up, and we'll see where it goes from here. I do have a general idea in mind, but... well. I guess I'll have to see how it goes.**


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N-_So here comes the Second chapter.**

**Want to thank Rachel and my readers for following this story. You guys rock.**

* * *

_**Red- Chapter 2**_

Ok. This is really _creepy_.

Special agent Tony DiNozzo should be freaked out. Totally and completely.

His partner, Ziva David, has been staring at the computer screen for the last 10 minutes, obviously deep in thought.

And she's doing that thing with her eyelashes, again.

Sort of, deep thinking, minding…brooding?

Pfft, which is ridiculous. Ziva David does _not,_ _brood_.

Something is up.

"Something on your mind, Zee-Vaah?" he asks teasingly, rolling her name on his tongue with the same old playful banter.

Breaking her continuous stare, the Israeli ninja's lips stretch into a smile, her eyes narrowing, "wouldn't you like to know," she answers, offering no further response.

Sighing, Tony feels there's something more she's not sharing, "Seriously, Ziva, what's up?"

Clucking her tongue, she shrugs it off, "Nothing," she says, "Everything's fine".

DiNozzo and McGee exchange quizzical looks.

Tony blinks, tilting his head, offering a soft "Huuumf", though nothing more.

* * *

Doctor Artzi is a quiet man. His glasses thin, nose aquiline, his lips constantly pursed. For over 10 years now, he's been qualified to assist young children at stake, from forsaken homes or broken families. Though it was only recently that his job required him to help and guide 10 year old Nehorai Cohen through this difficult stage of life.

7 years ago, Matan Artzi moved to the United States with his wife and kids, leaving Israel in a middle of violent war, to be able to grant his family a better future, far away from bloodshed and constant insecurity and fear of the unknown. His older son was to start College, the young one doing great in high-school. Ori was to study anthropology. Daniel wishes to be a pilot.

Looking back, he misses his home at times. _Beit Keshet_, as he remembered it, was a pastoral, picturesque Kibbutz at the northern _Galilee_. No more than 100 families inhabited it at the time; all residents knew each other as siblings. The young ones will play at the children's house for long hours, till the adults return from the harvest at sunset.

Life was generous.

Then the war started.

His home, as he remembered it for years, was suddenly under fire. The forest surrounding the Kibbutz ablaze, houses in piles of rubble.

His young children- suddenly insecure. His wife- fearing for their safety. With a heavy heart, they had fled; there was not a day he wasn't wondering if he hadn't made the wrong decision. But what was done was done.

His soft hair turned gray since, his face with soft wrinkles, of wonder, depression, and somewhat regret.

What was left behind- deserted.

It all surfaced days ago, when the Israeli embassy, with the ministry of interior's cooperation, presented him with Nehorai Cohen, a 10 year old boy. His eyes almond brown, his skin as soft Mocha, his curls dark and messy.

Nehorai is the picture of innocence.

Sitting in-front of him now, on the leather black couch, he twitches his fingers uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on the tape recorder placed on the wooden desk next to the tall library in the office.

They boy is hesitant.

As most children are, when visiting a psychiatrist's office.

"How are you doing today, Nehorai?" Dr. Artzi asks quietly.

His eyes disengaging from the recorder abruptly, turning to concentrate on the older man waiting patiently for an answer, he shrugs half-heartedly, "Fine", he blurts out, uncommitted.

The psychiatrist nods, "I heard Ziva found you under the bed, today," he says, factually.

"Mhhmhm," the boy mumbles, as he starts playing with his fingers.

Thinking for a second, the Dr. asks, "What do you do once you hear the door slams?" he asks.

Blinking, Nehorai offers a slow response, "I want to hide." He admits.

"From the sound?" pushes Artzi.

"From the explosion," answers the boy, as he keeps playing with his pinkies, "I don't want them to find me," his eyes convey apprehension.

"Like they found Ta'ir?" asks the psychiatrist, his voice slow; not pitying, but understanding.

They boy offers no answer to that.

Narrowing his eyes, the old psychiatrist tries a different approach- "Tell me about Ashkelon. Your hometown. Did you like it there?"

They boy nods, "Yes," he says, "I did".

"What was it like?"

A tiny smile appears, "We would get up early morning, meet with Amy and Naria, on our way to school. We would play tag and Avichai would sneak us buns from his bakery. The other kids on the block would wait hours for the fresh Challah on Friday noon. We would always go play ball at the playground on block Number #4. The old lady at the yard would scream at us for scarring of her ugly cats", Nehorai recalls, smiling, "I used to love playing there."

"-Until that day?" completes Artzi.

The child nods, "Until that day," he confirms, "Ima told me to never cross that street alone, again."

"Did you?"

"Not without Ima".

"Why?"

"Because…" he thinks, "I didn't want to".

The older man nods, "Nehorai…" he starts, "Is it the playground that used to bother you after that?"

He shakes his head, 'No'.

"Is it the explosion?"

Nehorai thinks this through for long seconds, then mumbles, "I'm not sure."

"Because it was not the first time".

The boy sighs. True.

"Then, I want you to think, alright? Think about it all, and tell me, what is that you want? What is that you're dreading? What is it that you think, is the most horrible thing? The thing that you feel…scares you most?"

Pursing his lips, then licking them, his eyes stare directly at the childrens-therapist. With a weak, soft voice, he answers, this time in Hebrew- "The _Tzeva Adom_" blinking furiously, "That's what I'm most afraid of".

"The red color?" asks the psychiatrist in understatement.

The boy offers a slight nod, once.

"What do you think when you hear this word, 'Red'..'DAWN'?"

Humming, Nehorai admits, "I think…I think about Ta'ir…" his voice hesitant, questioning almost, "And mostly…I think about…"

…"About?"

"Death", answers the young boy. "I think about death".

* * *

**TBC...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N- Too many toys in a doctor's office hardly ever comfort children. It just freaks them out.**

* * *

**Red- Chapter 3**

* * *

"Psst".

A cocked eyebrow.

"Hey!"

A somewhat flinch.

"McGoogle!"

Fingers leaving the keyboard annoyingly, "Now why are you whispering, Tony?" McGee's head turns towards the special agent.

"Gibbs alert!"

"Aha," McGee sighs, "He's down at the lab, and if I'm not done cleaning this hard-drive till he gets back…"

"Tsk," Tony waves it off, "We're in a middle of a fresh one," states Tony, referring the new case on their desk. Petty Officer found strangled in his bed in Alexandria.

McGee blinks, "Yes," he says slowly, "and…?"

Tony's eyes dart to the unoccupied desk in-front, "So why isn't Ziva here?" he asks the obvious question.

McGee shrugs, "I think I heard Gibbs saying something about a personal issue, she'll be here later."

"What personal issue?" Tony pushes the subject.

McGees eyes narrow, "I don't know, Tony. That is why they're called _personal_ issues. If I knew…"

"You're of no help, McGeek!"

Probie seems unaffected.

With a frustrated puff of air, Tony drops the subject. For now.

* * *

"You know that this is the only solution possible now, Ziva," officer Dan Me'ir tries to reason with the former Mossad agent.

"Like _hell_ it is!" Ziva doesn't budge. She's pacing around the room, not taking any crap today, from anyone, "You tell me, how am I supposed to look into his eyes again, knowing I'm letting him down?"

"Ziva…"

"You _cannot_ be serious!"

"I can drag my feet for a couple of months more, but this is out of my jurisdiction, I cannot fight the system, and…"

"You're the _embassy of the state of Israel_! You _are_ the system!" she insists, her hands clenched into tight fists, "I mean, did any of you ever bother to ask Nehorai what he wants to do? He's 10 years old, not a toddler! He can speak his mind up!"

"A mind that is controlled by fear and emotion, now, look, Ziva. He has a remaining family in the Gaza vicinity, and…"

"…_What?_?" Ziva can feel the vein of her neck stretching, this man will end up giving her a seizure, for sure, "Gaza vicinity?! _Which town_?"

"Nir Oz, in Eshkol Regional council, but listen…"

"Eshkol. The boy is from Ashkelon, and you want to send him to _Eshkol_" She cannot believe what she's hearing.

Dread fills down the officer's insides, suddenly. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea.

She's doing that thing with her eyelashes, again.

"You people are out of your minds, all of you!" Ziva barks, "Don't you guys understand what you're doing? The boy is _scared_! His parents can no longer take care of him! his only sister was killed by Hamas terrorists! I know what that's like! You're not going to just send him away to a war zone to serve as a sitting duck!" her eyes flesh dangerously.

The officer has no real response to that, but an exhausted sigh. His fingers brush the bridge of his nose, and he seems considering, "I am with my hands tied up here, Ziva. They directed me with orders, that this is time limited, until Nehorai's uncle is well enough and capable of taking care of the boy, it can take some time, but that's all we've got here. Unless you can think of a better idea…"

"…-He stays with me," says Ziva, in an uncompromised tone.

"With you?" the officer's eyebrow arches.

The young woman nods.

"Aren't you with the American Feds, now, Ziva? Not a simple job, from what I've heard. Are you capable of taking care of a young boy? And what does your boss has to say about it?"

Licking her lips, she says quietly, "This is something which doesn't have to concern you. This boy is under no condition to be brought back to Israel. Not in the state he's in. you have Dr. Artzi's reports supporting my opinion on this," she leans on the table, her voice quiet, "For once, think with your heads, Me'ir. Don't throw his life away for convenience. Too many good people have gone lost because of your politically correct processes. Convince them not to sacrifice Nehorai over this, too. You guys know him."

Exhaling, the officer nodded, "I see what I can do. Don't hold your hopes up, though; I don't guarantee success. But I will do what I can.

"That's all I ask".

* * *

Dr. Artzi removes his glasses to clean them with a soft tissue. He does that a lot, probably a way of concentrating.

And he blinks way too much.

Wonder what is that all about.

"What do you think about now, Nehorai?"

The boy shrugs, biting his lip, "I told ziva I don't like to come over here much," he admits, hoping to distract the psychiatrist from the real reason he's there in the first place.

Nehorai was always good at speaking. Distracting.

But not when it came to this. With anything else, sure.

"Oh, and why is that?"

"You keep clowns in your office."

"Mhmm".

"They're creepy".

The Dr. smiles, but offers no response.

"You don't like clowns?"

Thinking for a moment, but only a moment, the young boy shakes his head 'no'.

"In some of your recorded memories on tapes, I saw you had a clown for your birthday."

His eyes sadden, Nehorai blurts out, "Wasn't my birthday," he admits, "It was Ta'ir. She used to like clowns. Said their red noses are funny".

The doctor nods, "You remember that birthday, in which your mom brought the clown over?" the Dr. tilted his head, curious.

Nehorai nods.

"Would you tell me about it?"

His eyes wonder across the room, Nehorai says- "Ta'ir was six. They brought over all her classmates, they brought many gifts and there was a party in the garden. All the block's kids were playing outside. It was a cool party… and then…" he stops there, eyes frozen.

"Then what?"

"It came."

"What came?" asks the psychiatrist.

"The red color." Answers Nehorai feebly.

The doctor nods slowly.

"And what did you guys do?"

Blinking, Nehorai answers, "We started running. We tried to hide, some kids ran out of the garden to the house and the streets, yelling that the red monster is coming. Ta'ir started to cry once we came into the house and closed the iron windows and doors. I told her the red monster won't come looking for her, because they're not looking for skinny kids, and they don't take little girls. I told her that the 'red' will never catch her, because…because I'll always protect her…" his eyes start tearing up.

"Ah-ha" the Dr. takes in the boy's words, "And that was…a year before Ta'ir died?"

"Something like that, yes".

Tasking softly, he asks silently, "Bring the tape recorder over, Nehorai, please."

The boy grimaces. He knows this is part of the therapy, by now; for few minutes in each meeting they'll sit, and Nehorai will listen, quietly, to the recording, up till the day the voice heard from the tape is no longer threatening. It's just a recorder.

He rises up to bring the recorder, and Dr. Artzi places it on his lap. Nehorai gets back to his seat in front.

"On that day, did you hear it?" asks the psychiatrist.

Nehorai shakes his head 'No'. "There was the whistle, but nothing more. Just silence".

The Dr. nods, then softly, presses the play button.

Quiet fills the room for about 7 seconds, when suddenly, a female voice fills the room- "Red Color" she whispers, threateningly.

Nehorai's gaze is fixed on the tape.

"Red Color".

Her voice fills him up, blocking everything out.

"Red Color".

His throat in a knot, hands starts shaking, sweating; Heart thumping in his chest in dread.

"Red Color".

He blinks furiously, eyes running about across the room.

"Red Color".

And then, at some point, his mind drafts away, as he stops listening.

He feels like he should be lying under the bed in Ziva's place, his palms covering his ears, the blanket covering him safely.

He wishes Ta'ir was holding his hand, too.

* * *

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- Thank you again for those who follow my story!**

**Just a small background- The city of Ashkelon is in southern Israel, about less than an hour drive from Tel Aviv, and is located between the main city of Ashdod (at its north) and the Palestinian Gaza Strip (from south). It holds one of the most strategic sites in Israel, called the '_Katzaa_', which is basically a 'bridge' passing crude Oil from the Mediterranean to the red sea, and back. in Ashkelon there are about 115,000 residents.**

**'Gaza Vicinity'- known in Hebrew as _'Otef Aza'_(Literally translated as 'The Gaza envelope') is the general name of 55 small towns surrounding the Gaza strip. those towns are parted into local councils. Main councils are the _Eshkol_ regional council, _Sha'ar HaNegev_ regional council, and _Hof(beach) Ashkelon_ regional council. Ashkelon the city, and Hof Ashkelon council, are two separated places, not to be confused together (something that even Israelis do not understand at times, go figure). Lately, the name of 'Gaza Vicinity' was identified also as the range of 40 kilometers from the strip itself, including _Be'er Sheva_, _Yavne_ and _Ashdod_.**

**And...that's it.:)**

* * *

**Red- Chapter 4:**

* * *

Nir Oz, Eshkol Regional council, Southern Israel, 4:17 PM

Avraham and Ester Cohen released the dog to run about in the field, earlier this morning. Said dog is now barking at the chicken coop, navigates some back to their cages.

Collecting the eggs carefully, the old couple checks once more that everything is in its correct place, before the farmer comes and collects them, on his way to retrieve the milk from Hezi's cowshed.

Their land spreads to wide distance, fields and hills painted with both sand and green blanket.

They notice the Philippine workers on nearby hills, harvesting; the fruits are gathered quickly in small baskets, to be passed to the kitchens for tonight's supper.

Ester releases a tired sigh, her age is of influence. Avraham himself is limping, and the dog running about around him, barking, is not helping- "_Sheket_, Poppi!" he scolds the dog, "move over!"

The Golden retriever's enthusiasm is undisturbed, and he keeps jumping, his paws searching for his owner's hardworking arms, his wet nose sensing something in the air.

Suddenly, his barking changes from enthusiastic to frantic. Backing from the chicken coop, he waggles his tale in excitement as his paws start scratching the sand urgently.

Ester notices this almost immediately, "Poppi!" she calls in alert, her eyes start wondering around the hills, her voice shaking, "Is it coming?"

Her answer is immediate, as a long deafening 'beep' sound fills the Kibbutz, and a female mechanic voice calls from the high speaker-

"Red Color" she warns, "Red color".

"Avraham!" the wife's hoarse voice cracks, "into the house, quick!" she urges him.

The eggs' basket forgotten, they start running towards the house. Running is impossible for the husband, as his leg is of no good, and his face redden as he forces himself to ignore the burning pain, and get out of there quickly.

Then he remembers. The workers. The workers on the hills.

He turns around at once, with his greatest vocal efforts, he cries- "Yan!"

"Red color".

"Yan!" he tries again.

"Avraham!" he hears his scared wife calling, "Don't just stand there! Get into the house!"

"Red Color".

"Yan!" he refuses to give up, his palms fill with sweat, knowing he has no time, but he cannot leave the workers there!

"Red Color".

Finally, Yan's head is turned towards a tiny voice calling him from a distance.

Having no time for further explaining, Avraham raises his right hand, then clenches it into a tight fist.

"Red Color".

That is a sign. A sign with no other meaning but- 'Run. NOW'.

In a matter of no more than three seconds, all bets are off. The workers leave the baskets and remaining fruit behind, as they start running as fast as they can down the hills, looking for a safe place to hide in, or under.

That is when Avraham allows himself to finally pass through the front door of his house, into the cornered room, where hopefully, they'll be safe.

But before he knows, he hears the dreaded sound of a blast from somewhere faraway.

The blast shakes the walls, doors and windows, but they're thankfully still intact.

"Avraham!" his wife's fearful voice scolds him, "You stupid old man! You could have gotten yourself killed!" her arms grasp his collar, and she starts weeping.

Sighing, he holds his old girl close, "There, there, woman; stop that, I'm alright. I couldn't just let Yan and the guys be left there. Did you hear how close that was!?"

"Did I hear…?! Of course I heard! you think that was here in Nir Oz?"

"Nah, that was from up north, maybe from Nirim. or Re'im, perhaps."

"You think we should call Itzik?" his wife asks, considering, "He has the little girls in school, they probably heard that, we should check and see if they're fine!"

"We do that, later" he soothes, "now, get into the backroom, and close the window. You know their preference is of when darkness falls. Being ready is never redundant".

* * *

Hours later:

Nehorai plays with his fork silently.

Ziva observes him, "Are you alright?" she asks curiously.

"Hhhm" he hums, though doesn't show any intention of stop playing with his food.

She puts her own napkin back on the table, "How did it go with Dr. Artzi yesterday?" she asks carefully.

"Eh".

"I see," she responds, "Did he bring the tape recorder again?"

"Yes," answers the child, then his eyes travel to look at her, almost blaming, "You said you'll ask him not to," he's not accusing, just commenting sadly, "he keeps saying It'll get better…"

"But?"

"But I don't want to hear it anymore…" he says, "I don't want the Red Color".

Ziva understands. Of course she does. She was born in Be'er Sheva, after all. They were all on the same sinking boat. But there are not enough life vests to aid them all.

Chewing her pasta, she is careful with her next words, "They keep in touch with your aunt and uncle", her voice is soft, "They are asking if you're doing o.k."

His eyes lighten, "Really?" he asks hopefully, "Is Uncle Avraham o.k? Does his leg still hurt?"

The boy's concern is touching, "He's fine", she soothes, and with a soft sigh, she adds, "They had the 'Red Color' yesterday afternoon."

He drops his fork, eyes widening in fear, "And?" he asks, "was anyone hurt?" he blinks.

"Thankfully, no" Ziva calms him, "Your uncles and cousins are fine. Their chickens were unquiet the following hours, but nothing serious".

"Good," the boy sighs, "That's….good" he repeats.

Clucking her tongue, her eyes keep trace of his body movements, and feeling for him, she says, "I told Me'ir to not even think about sending you to Nir Oz anytime soon. You're going to be safe here, don't worry."

He nods, "_Toda_, Ziva" he whispers, "but I wish Avraham and Ester were here, as well. I know they won't come like that out of the blue, but they cannot stay there, either. What if something seriously bad happens? Uncle Avraham cannot run or hide."

Smiling, Ziva chuckles, "He's a lot stronger than you give him credit for, Nehorai. And your aunt is pretty wonderful, too. She takes care of him".

A tiny smile back is her answer, "Yeah", Nehorai recalls, "One time, that bully Eric tried to steal her eggs for winning a bet. She chased him down the hill waving a frying pan for like an hour. He ran screaming that she's a crazy woman and should be locked up," he almost laughs.

Ziva nods in amusement.

Nehorai grows serious soon enough, "Are you going to get in trouble?" he asks timidly, "with your team? For keeping me here?"

She doesn't lie to him, "With my team?" she repeats, "I doubt it. With the embassy's men? That won't surprise me. But," she says, "This is a war we're both going to win, you and I," she promises, "Don't you think you're going to get rid of me that easily. I promised you that you're going to stay for as long as you want. And Dr. Artzi and Me'ir are going to help me, and you, get all better, so that once you're home, you'll be fine. Your family wants you to get better. So do I".

"I know, Ziva", he seems encouraged, "I just wish…"

"…Yes"?

"I wish…" his eyes narrow, "That all of this would stop. That we could have normal lives, you know? Without the Red Color".

"Once, Nehorai, that'll happen. You need to believe in that."

"And until then?" he pushes.

"Until than… you're going to stay with me. Don't doubt that for a minute."

His lips stretch into a soft grin.

"Now stop playing with your food," she cocks and eyebrow, "Eat, your pasta gets cold".

* * *

_**TBC...**_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N- Informative Background:**

**'_Shabbak_'- The Israeli name of what is known internationally as Shin-Bet. It is the formal demotic security agency of Israel (one wing out of three. The Mossad is the international intelligence agency, the Shabbak is the interior security agency, and Amman is the military intelligence force). Its expertise is on dealing with interior terrorists or acts of terrorism weather initiated by Arabs or Jews in Israel.**

**'_Abarbanel_'- A known psychiatric hospital in central Israel.**

**'_Netanya_'- A coastal city in northern Israel. Infamous for being "_the crime capitol" _of the state.**

* * *

**Red- Chapter 5**

* * *

The sun's soft lightning breaks through the blinds, as Nehorai blinks sleep away. Stretching slowly, his eyes adapt to the morning's warmth.

He pulls his body up, removes the blanket and dropping his legs on the floor softly. Covering his eyes with both palms, he utters quietly- "I offer thanks before you, living and eternal King, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me; Your faithfulness is great."

Then, removing his hands from his eyes, he spotted a half-empty glass of water on the bookshelf, finishing it up with a gulp.

Discarded on the floor next to his bed, are his clothes, and next to them lies a book he just finished reading, "_Jack and the Beanstalk_".

He gets dressed slowly, removing the blinds to expose the outdoor light; opening the door to enter the hallway, he feels the fresh aroma of pancakes and butter filling the air. After brushing his teeth and cleaning his face, he makes his way to the kitchen

There stands Ziva, boiling an egg on the stove. Noticing the boy, she smiles, "Good morning," she greets, "Did you sleep ok?"

A soft wordless nod is the child's reply. He sits down next to the table in silence.

"I made you breakfast," she states, "Dr Artzi will pick you up in about 15 minutes, but I'm out of here in 10. We have a fresh one, so…"

"I'll be alright," Nehorai's reedy voice is calm, "You should go, your team needs you."

"I am where I'm needed," she insists, "Do you need anything? I'm stopping at the grocery store."

"Nope," he shakes his head, "I'm ok".

"Fine, then" she says, turning to leave the room.

* * *

"Well, it's nice of you to finally join us," Tony DiNozzo's flirty banter tone greets her, though today same voice is dipped with something similar to a pout, the special agent exchanged knowing looks with McGee, "Seriously, Ziva, something is off, even Probie notices that, his McPanic radar is all chiming".

McGee's eyes narrow as he darts Tony a disapproving glare, "Don't get me into that, Tony. Your snooping default method is all on its own, on this one." his eyes are fixed on the computer screen in front.

Ziva chuckles, "Everything is fine, Tony; and if wasn't, I'd deal with that myself. That is why we call that a 'private life', because it's private." She emphasizes.

"You're doing that thing with your eyelashes again, Zeee-Vah."

"Ugrh!" she snorts and rolls her eyes, "You know Tony, sometimes you're just…"

"Hold that thought," Gibbs shows up from behind them, "Petty officer down in Quantico. Gear up".

* * *

Petty officer Arnold Corbelan, is the name of their new victim. 37 years old, no family in the area. Former stationing in Iraq and Afghanistan, Corbelan wished to start fresh, by what they have learned, but apparently his plans were cut short.

What appeared to be a triple GSW in the abdominal cavity, defensive wounds on his body, was visible.

The team was to stay there for a while.

About 40 minutes after their arrival at the scene, Ziva's phone starts vibrating, "David," she answers steadily.

"_Shalom_, Ziva," she recognize the hoarse voice of officer Me'ir from the embassy, and tenses visibly.

"Me'ir," she mumbles, taking a step back from the group, "I'm hoping you didn't call to bring more bad news, I'm tired of those, to be honest".

A sigh is heard from the other side of the line, "Not at the moment. I've spoken with the office at Tel-Aviv, they are trying to come up with a more…stable plan, so to speak".

"And?"

"And….They agreed that for the foreseen future, Nehorai is to stay with you until a more…suitable solution is found".

A sigh of relief leaves the former Mossad agent's body, "Excellent, Me'ir, thank you."

"There is something else, though," he hesitates, "I am not sure how accurate is this information, or if I'm allowed to release this on the phone, but…"

"…Me'ir, what is it?"

"It's about No'am Cohen…"

"Nehorai's cousin?"

"Yeah, him," replies the embassy man, "Apparently, they have a problem with his mission".

Ziva tenses again, "What do you mean a problem, what happened?"

"I am not really sure, they're all hush-hush about it, but…from what I've heard? Eldai suspects he's a snitch. He informed his team that they're blown on hill 13".

"Damn it!" she hisses, "So what? Did they hurt him?"

"No, but he's under investigation for possibly blowing this up on purpose. He's on their black list in Beit- El. They all know that, but they said that if the media here starts babbling about it, heads are gonna be chopped off. And now, on top of that, he's under domestic questioning with the team."

"_Seriously_?!" Ziva's voice is fills with anger, "without him, they'd have nothing!"

"It's _The Shabbak_, Ziva; that's the stinky part of town."

"Yeah, tell me 'bout it" she exhales impatiently, "Is he under arrest?"

"For what? They have nothing on him, for all we know, he can be a double, but I'm sure he's not that stupid."

"He should just go back to live in Netanya."

"Pfft!" the officer snorts, "Because THAT is a safe place, alright!"

She hums in response.

"Don't let Nehorai get the winds of it, Ziva. People talk around here, you know? Since the Adelle Case? They're on arresting spree on the hills. You know how they tend to go, those things might influence the peace process, and when Rotenberg's veins start pumping out, then…eh, things get ugly."

'Thank you for the mental image', Ziva rolls her eyes.

"How are the child's uncles?" Ziva asks.

"They're fine. They wanted to pass their gratitude for the kind woman keeping an eye out for their nephew. They're holding up."

"And the mother?"

"Still unresponsive. Treated in Abarbanel".

Ziva nodded. She notices Gibbs signing her to approach the team. Apparently they are done there. "Ok, please keep me informed on any news or developments concerning No'am Cohen."

"I will."

She snaps the phone closed.

Great. Just great.

* * *

A child is placed in his infant-seat, as his mother's familiar voice caresses his fears and insecurity. She slides into the car, after putting her groceries on the seat next to her.

They leave the parking lot on their way home.

The child is babbling happily, waving his rattle around, the mother smiles at him through the rear-view mirror. She sings softly, and his enthusiasm fades as her voice fills him up, "A tiny elephant, his trunk so long, to pace alone he can't, even though he's very strong… Yesterday was the baby elephant born…" she sings, peeking to see the small infant waving his rattle again, giggling happily, "He's very tiny, cannot walk on its own…"

The baby claps his hands; accumulation of drool escapes his mouth, as he coos softly at her. "You're hungry, sweetheart?" she asks, and as a response, he pushes his pinkies into his tiny mouth, chewing on them loudly. "I know, baby," she soothes, "We will be home soon enough. And then- milk milk milk!" she calls, "And Bananas! Bananas, don't you want ba…-" she stops there, pulling the vehicle into an edgy halt, as a long, twisting loud 'beep' is heard from above her.

Gulping, she releases her seat belt with a loud 'wooosh!', as a feminine delicate voice fills the air-

"Red Color."

Rising upright in less than a second, the driver's door is opened, then slams shut.

She opens the backdoor, quickly, with shaky hands, releasing her son from his baby-seat.

"Red Color."

Held tightly against his mother's chest, the infant feel the immediate change in the air, a soft whimper leaves his mouth.

"Red Color."

Looking for a safe place, a shut door, a closed building, she starts running, escaping, her helpless on in her arms, she holds onto him tightly, caressing his delicate head.

"Red Color."

She find her spot behind a concrete wall, slides down on the ground, her son obviously in distress. His cooing is changed into a small pout, quivering lip, a soft tear, "Shhhh," she mumbles, holding onto him, "Please be quite, it's ok, it will all be over soon enough, don't be afraid, baby."

"Red Color."

"Don't be afraid…"

After a few seconds, which seem like an eternity, a huge blast shaken her world, as her son releases a distress wail of fear. She sees white all around her, and then, nothing more.

The baby no longer cries.

* * *

_**...TBC...**_

_**'Red' **_**now has a *gif story sig! PM me to see it.  
**

**I know the chapters are short now, but they'll grow longer as the story continues.**

**Any confusing details will be explained and further explored as I go, so don't worry, I won't leave you confused.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N-**

**Hey!**

**Sorry it took me some time to update. Academic year has started, which means I don't have much free time, as in, I don't really have ANY. So, I update when and how I can. So, sorry 'bout that.**

**Informative background:**

**- The names _Nehorai, Ta'ir, _and_ Ziva, _are very different in sound, but basically all hold the same meaning, which is "light". _Ziva_, as you probably all know, is translated to "Brilliance", not like in wisdom-brilliance, but brilliance in a manner of 'light' or 'sparkle'. The word _Ziv_ is the root of the name, mostly used as 'Ziv Panim', which means 'The light of a face'. In hebrew it is common to use the phrase to show someone you have been waiting to see him or her for a long time.**

**_Nehorai_ is a name from the Jewish Talmud, it means 'The enlightened one'. The name _Ta'ir_ (pronounced: Taa-eer) means 'She who brings light'. I find it very enspiring that there are so many different ways of naming a person, to show them just how much they are importent to you. So, that was it concerning names.:)**

**- The Islamic Jihad: The second greatest organization in Gaza strip, which is much more extremist than Hamas. While Hamas is the voted governmet, the Islamic Jihad is known for not following the organization's agenda, almost in every aspect possible, and therefore this organization is also the source of many troubles in the area. When it comes to the area's conflict, not just a few troubles come from this organization, which takes direct orders from the Iranian regime.**

* * *

**Red: Chapter 6**

* * *

Dr. Artzi sits there with pursed lips, his eyes roaming over the boy sitting in front of him.

Nehorai is agitated, he can sense that. His small body twitches and spasms lightly every once in awhile, and he obviously is having trouble staying still. The leather couch emits a squashy sound as the young boy tries to find a suitable position to sit in. Their sessions in the past week conveyed that the boy is trying to placate him, due to last month's outburst when he settled the tape recorder in front of him.

Dr. Artzi said nothing at the time, nodding understandably, which seemed to only fume the child even more.

He looks across at Nehorai, the boy keeps playing with his fingers quietly. He does that a lot.

As a psychiatrist, he gets to witness and assist many patients, coming across all kinds of people. Some reckless, some scared, some brave. All of them built up this wall around them that other people simply cannot touch.

Nehorai has not built a wall.

He encircled himself with a fortress.

He surrounded himself with an invisible wall that stood untouched, uncompromised, deeply rooted in the ground.

That wall was, and still is, probably will always be- the red color.

It is up do him to crush that wall, and clean away remaining rubble.

In order for that to happen, he needs the boy to talk; talk about his fears, face them, not lock them up in a box.

"What I need for you to do, now, Nehorai, is to open up. I want you to try, try and explain to me what is going on, went on, once you had to face the red color."

The boy gulps nervously.

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" Dr. Artzi asks, "I know why, and you know why you're here. But let us pretend for a moment that we don't. I want you to tell me the story. Can you do that, tell stories?"

Considering, Nehorai nods.

"Good," the psychiatrist's lips stretch into a tiny smile, "So…Every story starts with a beginning, right?"

Nehorai nods again, "So…Why don't you start by telling me, what is exactly the red color, that frightens you so?"

Blinking furiously, Nehorai starts- "It is a mechanic…" his voice is hoarse, and he has to clear his voice, trying again, "It's a mechanic alarm system that alerts us from Hamas rocket fire…" he stutters, "Once we hear the woman in the speaker says 'red color', we know we have to hide…"

"Or else…" Dr. Artzi urges gently.

"Or else the red monster finds you…" Nehorai says.

"Did Ta'ir see the red monster?"

"No," Nehorai exhales weakly, "But she heard it. Before she died, she heard it. She looked at me, and I could understand what she was saying, even if she didn't say it out loud."

"What did she tell you?"

Nehorai's lip quivers, "not to cry…" his voice shakes, "Because that what mom used to tell us when we heard the red color. That we shouldn't cry."

"What should you do, then?"

"Sing," he smiles sadly, "Sing. Every time we hear it, we should hold each other's hands, and sing."

Dr. Arzi hums thoughtfully, in an almost detaching manner, "Alright," he smoothes, "Let's talk about Ziva."

Nehorai shakes his head quietly, "How did you end up staying at her place?"

"Through the embassy," he plays with his fingers again, "They know her well. They asked if she can take care of me, because my mom is… not well…" he recalls painfully, his brave, beautiful mother, so stoned, frozen, not recognizing him, his father, or any other member of their family. She lost her sanity after Ta'ir's premature death.

"And your father?"

"My father's name was Assaf," offers the child, "He used to work in the fields, in _Sha'ar Hanegev_. He was an agriculturist."

"And what happened?" the psychiatrist asks patiently.

"The red color found him. In the field."

"The rocket?"

"Yes."

"What it Hamas?" Dr. Artzi asks, "That killed your father?"

"No," Nehorai shakes his head negatively, "Islamic Jihad."

Dr. Artzi hums again, "How do you like it here?" he asks suddenly, changing the subject, "In the United States?"

The boy smiles, though no happiness in conveyed from those almond eyes, "I love it," his voice is honest, but something is still there, something…off, "I love it that it's not too hot in here, these days. And I love to see from the car's windows how the buildings stand so tall, tickling the clouds. And I love the bear claws," he finishes, embarrassed.

The psychiatrist releases something that sounds like a chuckle, "There is nothing better than the morning's bear claw" he agrees amusingly.

Nehorai nods uncomfortably, his lips tight, his eyes traveling around the room.

Removing his glasses to clean them, Dr. Artzi pauses, probably rethinking his next approach; deciding, he hands him a piece of paper, "Here, take this" he hands it over.

Nehorai grasps the blank paper quizzically, probably wondering what is that all about, "Now, what I want you to do is quite simple. I need you to write down on that piece of paper the days of the week. Now, each time you think about the red color, or fear it, I want you to draw a line. Each time, each day it happens. Can you do that?"

"Yes," answers the boy with a frown, "yes, I can."

"Good," completes the psychiatrist, as a comfortable silence settles in.

* * *

The case was shut closed this very evening. As Ziva turns to pick up her jacket, she finds Tony's eyes arrowing hers.

"Is there a problem, Tony?" she asks, her eyebrow rising in almost impatience.

His childlike mood is absent this evening, "I know there's something going on, Ziva," he says, tone serious.

Ever since they came back from Berlin, he sensed that in some way, her barrier came tumbling down, she let him in that night in the car, and he could sense something shifting in her. And now, suddenly, without any warning, the walls are back, deeply rooted in the ground again.

He so strongly wants to know why.

He knows that look, as the tiny wrinkles, those almost invisible to anyone else, reappear on her forehead. Wrinkles of worry, of something unsettled.

He wants to know what it is, because God, he wants to fix this, whatever it is that influences her work, her everyday excitement, everything that makes her who she is.

He can sense something is off with her, that she needs someone to listen.

He thought he succeeded in showing her that he can be that listener, days ago. But apparently, there is something more.

He can see it in her eyes now, as something twitches in them. A sole sparkling splinter, and then, it's gone as it came.

"Everything is fine, Tony," she says, trying to gain back her personal space as she realizes her grasps her hand tightly, and she backs away, "I told you guys already," her eyes travel to McGee, who stands near his desk, his head tilted in obvious interest, "I'll see you both tomorrow," and with that, she turns to leave.

Tony's eyes follow her as he grits his teeth; "Everything is NOT alright," his head turns to McGee.

Probie nods understandably, "I agree," he responds, "Something is definitely off," and then, "What do we do? Talk about it with Gibbs?"

"And tell him…what? That Ziva is acting strangely? No, it's Gibbs we're talking about, chances are that noticed it way before we did."

"And if he did nothing, or didn't talk to her about it, what can we possibly do, then?"

His shoulder sag abruptly, and Tony sighs. He knows her good enough to remember that there are times when pushing Ziva to come forward about what's on her mind does nothing but damage, he witnessed it first hand, but at the same time, he cannot just let this go, now, can he? "We keep an eye on her, McGoo, is what we do," he says, his eyes narrowing, "Whatever it is which is on her mind, we'll find soon enough."

* * *

As Ziva comes back home, she tosses her keys on the wooden desk softly, then notices Nehorai in his jammy's, on the couch, his eyes fixed on the television screen; he sees her and smiles, "Are you hungry?" she asks minutes later, "I can cut us some vegetables, I bought us some potatoes, too."

Nehorai sits near his chair, "No, I am not hungry," he whispers, "Maybe some tea, though?" he asks politely.

Nodding, she blurts out "Sure," as she turns to click on the kettle.

This one she bought yesterday, as the new one broke down suddenly, about three days ago. She liked this old-style kettle, the way it fits her kitchen, and bought it on sale.

She opened the kitchen closet ajar, picking up Nehorai's favorite tea, peppermint- she recalls, as the boiling sound is heard from the warming kettle near the sink.

Nehorai waits quietly for Ziva to sit in front of him with their cup of fresh warm tea, as the kettle releases a long whistle, announcing the water boiled.

The noise is loud and edgy, and Nehorai finds himself tensing involuntarily. With a gulp, he gets a grip and stretches back to previous position, as Ziva turns around. She offers a smile, he offers one back.

They drink their tea in silence.

Hours later, Nehorai sits in his room, hugging his legs close to his chest; the lamp on the table near the bed offers a soft light to break down the darkness surrounding him.

His eyes leave the window to fix on a paper on the shelf.

He picks it up, looking for a pencil that should be here somewhere. Seconds later, he finds it.

His eyes travel over the paper.

Today is Tuesday. Paper given to him was at 10 AM.

Tuesday, the first day, appears on the list in bold. Right underneath, ten thin lines are visible on the paper.

He adds the eleventh in silence.

* * *

**...TBC...**


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N- The sound of a rocket hitting the ground is something which cannot be conveyed or described in words, therefore, I never try to explain that specific aspect. I do know, first hand, about the scars (not only physical ones) that they leave behind. _**

**_Tza'eer- _lit. meaning "young". Describing someone who's 'new' at what they're doing, or still haven't reached the stage of professionalism.**

_**Hazir****-**_** Hebrew word for 'pig'.**

_**'Orange ones'**_** - derogatory names for right-wingers.**

* * *

**_Red- Chapter 6:_**

* * *

_Katmon neighborhood, Jerusalem, Israel, 5:42 PM:_

Aaron Sirkin emits an uncouth gargling sound, as he swallows down the cold coffee with one mouthful, then slams the empty cup on the table frustratingly.

Gazing straight ahead, he raises an eyebrow, "So," he opens, his eye twitching dangerously, "What do you have for me today, Alfasi?"

"Eh…mmrggm," Itay Alfasi, a young man dressed in a simple T-shirt and black jeans, sitting on the couch in front of them, stutters uncomfortably, "Not much, to be honest," he takes the risk of admitting the truth, "Cohen has been following Eldai's boys for a couple of months now, but I got the word that lately he's been…on edge, if you get what I'm saying".

"On edge?" Sirkin all but growls, "meaning…._what_, exactly?"

"Uhhh, he called Meirson a couple of weeks ago? He told him that they guys there might suspect he's with us…. And that is…as far as I know, as far as they told me…"

"We should have known better than to trust that _Tza'eer_," Sirkin rises from the couch, starts pacing thoughtfully. That confuses Akfasi; he wishes he calms down and sit back, he doesn't like this thoughtful pacing, it usually means he's in trouble.

He's going to _kill_ Cohen, if the boys don't do it themselves.

Exposing himself like this? Was he an idiot? _Seriously_.

"Where is he now?"

"Back in Tel-Aviv, we have our people there making sure he doesn't mess up again, but they should have given him the boot, if you ask me. You know what their guy on shift told me yesterday?"

"Mhmm?"

"That they'll look into it, and if he has the all clear, he can go back to Beit-El for completing his mission."

"They…_what_ now?" Sirkin spits, sending drops of saliva all over.

Gross.

"That what they said. You can ask this twit yourself, I don't know who put him on calls-taking, but the guy is a serious pest on the phone. I asked him what the hell were they thinking, sending this boy to Beit-El again, and he said that_ I shouldn't concern myself with it_."

"He told you _that_," blinking furiously, Sirkin forehead's vein becomes visible.

It seems like it's about to pop right out of his head.

Not a good sign.

Time for a chill-pill?

Twitching his fingers, Alfasi thinks, then gives up, "You're the district's chief, what do you say we should do?"

"We talk to Miller, first thing in the morning," answers Sirkin, "Give him a piece of my mind, there's no way I'm letting Cohen blow this thing up again. What he should do is stay put, before he gets himself into any more trouble. Or us. Do you have any idea what the orange ones will do if this thing goes public?"

Alfasi shudders, "needless to say, it can cause a civilian struggle against the uniforms."

"Oh, you bet your ass off on that, boy! Ever heard the saying, "there is no such thing as bad press?" let me tell you, people babbling about us going undercover on the hills IS the exception. Bad press, bad Karma. Bad everything! This operation _cannot_ go public."

Alfasi nods. Of course he understands. What Cohen should do is thank the creator Eldai didn't caught him red-handed snitching his ass-off to the uniforms. What they do when they realize their little brigade is exposed? He doesn't want to even think about it.

He rather deal with the Hamas bastards 100 times, than start a war with the boys on the hills.

* * *

Hill 15, Binyamin area, that same night:

A young man stands upright on said hill, his eyes observe the distance.

Darkness is his best of allies.

The uniforms are afraid of the darkness.

While in daytime they can easily spot them, their figures shine with pride as the sand and warm winds caress them as silk, but here, now? At night? They're nothing but cowards, they cannot defeat them.

The young man is 1.78 meters in height; his eyes bright-blue, his skin tanned. His hair- sand as the hills themselves.

Now, his handsome face is covered with a Palestinian Kaffiyeh. His rapid breath warms up his face, his eyes sparkling as the stars above, his figure in itself provocative. 'Come,' he almost whispered with a silk voice, 'Come, if you dare.'

"Eldai," a hoarse voice from behind him calls, and he turns around.

In front of him stands Rachel. A young girl from Ashkelon.

Her eyes blue as his, her young face speaks of both naivety and fire, her voice both sharp and soft.

Her deep-blonde hair falls on her hips, collected in a long braid, and her face, as she looks at him now, is determined.

A young southern girl, she stands different from the others on the hills. Her soul scarred from Hamas rocket fire, she opened her own struggle awhile ago, eager to help them with whatever they needed. It was rare that youth from the south appears in here, they have their own inner battles. But Rachel? Rachel is nothing like the rest. She always stood independent. A girl of valor. Fearless. A true warrior.

The rest respected her, still do.

Her hand caresses her midsection now, protecting the life developing underneath. Her 17th week of pregnancy it is, the fetus is healthy and strong.

With cramps, swollen feet and hormones, she's still the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.

Damn be the uniforms if any of them ever touch her!

"Rachel," he calls, turning around, pacing towards her, "You shouldn't be here. It's a cold night, you should have stayed with Michael inside the house."

"You shouldn't be here, either, Eldai," she approaches him, touching his face tenderly, "What if they're here somewhere? They're ruthless; you know what will happen once they find you."

"They won't," he soothes his beloved, a small palm softly embracing, passing over her arms, and she almost smiles. He always thinks of her, "They don't have what it takes to come over here at night."

Rachel sighs, "You don't know that," she's still worried, "That traitor, Cohen, probably ratted on you by now. I've told you he cannot be trusted!" her face twitch with contempt. One of their own, betraying them! He should have answered to the justice of the hills! But the coward one ran back to his men, the uniforms, just so he won't have to face justice from those he dared to betray!

"Don't worry, we will get him," he promises her.

Rachel releases a furious breath, "He gave me his word, Eldai," she hisses, "He gave me his word, that he will be devoted to you, that he will protect our baby," her eyes narrow as anger is clearly flooding them, "And he betrayed us. You should have haunted him down for putting your own son at risk!" she challenges her mate, chin pointed up in defiance, her hand still resting on her stomach.

A dangerous spark appears in Eldai's eyes; He knows Rachel to be brave, but to challenge his fatherhood? No boy of his ever thought of doing anything similar to this. He almost smiles at the thought. Yes, Rachel would be a good leader for the boys on the hills someday. If he didn't know her for bravery enough by now, that small expression of bravery proved him she is nothing but courageous, now.

Cupping her face with both hands, he looks into her eyes deeply, not fearing the challenge, "When I catch that bastard," his breath is warm on her lips, "He's a dead _hazir_."

Rachel grins at that, "I know you're a good man," she says, her warm hand caressing his chest, "I'm sorry, I should not have doubted your actions like previously. I know where your heart lies."

"It's with you, Rachel," he says, his voice is nothing but honest, "With you and the boys."

"And the hills," Rachel voice is one of warning.

"And the hills," he confirms, kissing her forehead, "If he comes, or any of them come," he breathes into her hair, "They'll answer to me and the boys. Don't you doubt that for a minute."

She embraces him, "I don't," she says, "I trust you."

* * *

Nehorai's eyes spinning, as he struggles to follow Dr. Artiz's words, this session.

Last night, those were two lines. A night before, those were five. Previous week, more than 10.

Will it get better? One day, perhaps.

Right now, 'better' seems… so out of reach.

He usually wakes up before Ziva. Says his morning blessing, get dressed, brushes his teeth, tiptoeing towards the kitchen, something redundant since she's always awake by that time. She cooks breakfast, or just boils up the morning coffee, or tea, or hot cocoa, by preference.

Each day starts with the same relaxed, calmed method. Till usually something happens.

She forgets to put the cups in the dish washer, casually drops them in the sink.

He jumps.

She forgets that she shouldn't slam the door once she enters or leaves the car.

He jumps.

She sometimes forgets that she re-synched the house's alarm system, that he shouldn't go near the window at night because the alarm catches him there and goes off.

He screams.

His face colored deep purple, he bites his lip so hard he can feel the salty taste of blood, his fingers pull on his soft curls, his body shaking inexorably.

Every airplane passing in the sky puts him on edge. Airplane means militant attack. Militant attack brings the red color. Once Nehorai hears the airplane breaking through the clouds, his most basic instinct is to find a shelter.

But the airplane flying above that night doesn't mean war or fear or death. It's just an aircraft out of many. Nehorai still can't get used to the sound.

The therapy session is finally over, and Nehorai can breathe again.

Leaving the office, waiting for the bus to take him back to Ziva's place, where he's currently home-schooled, he holds his phone close.

The sudden ring catches him off guard. Whoever calls him at this time? Ziva usually calls early morning and afternoon, not at this time.

His surprise triggers once he notices the area number.

_+972084576823_

He recognizes the number, but why on earth?

"…Hello?" he answers feebly

"Nehorai!" he recognizes the voice of his 20 year old cousin, No'am.

"Momi?" he calls, his familiar voice so reminding him of home, of familiarity, of everything that was left behind. He misses his family so!

"No'am?" he repeats, "No'am, how are you? Are you okay?"

He can barely figure out what his cousin is trying to say, the background noise keeps interrupting, "What?" he calls then, eyes widening, "No'am, calm down! Tell me where you are? What happened to you?"

He can hear background noises still, those are frantic, panicked, some cries and yells, "No'am, what happened? Tell me what happened!"

"Nehorai, listen to me!" he hears his cousin's response, "Talk to Ziva, whatever you do, you cannot stay in the united states! You have to leave now! You have to run! Don't stay there!"

"What?...but, why!?"

"…I cannot say!" his muffled voice breaks, "Do as I tell you, and run away! With Ziva, without her, you have to leave, they're coming after you!"

"Who?" fear fills him from head to toe, "Why? What do they want?!"

"Save yourself, Nehorai! Do as I tell you, you have to save yourself!"

"But, No'am!"

The line goes dead.

* * *

**...TBC...**

**A/N (again)- Ohhhh, Uhhhhhhhh, CLIFFI!:D**

**Please review this story! am I good, do I bore? am I confusing? if confusing, this is to get clear soon enough. I know I have some typos and grammar issues, but I swear I'm working on that! but please tell me how can I improve myself so I can get to the point where the story is good!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N-**** I know, I know, haven't updated in a long time, and I'm sorry, honest. All my cousins just went through a huge baby-boom, and I'm the full-time nanny, didn't have much time to write. **

**Anyway, here's the next chapter. Sorry it's so short, the next one will come soon enough (I hope).**

* * *

**Red- chapter 8**

* * *

It's after eight thirty at night, when Ziva unlocks the door and slowly makes her way into the living-room. It takes her about a minute to understand that the boy sitting next to the kitchen counter is deeply troubled.

His cellphone is settled on the table, his eyes fixed on an imaginative spot somewhere in front of him. She doesn't bother to try and small-talk him out of whatever it is that's on his mind; she knows the boy well enough to realize this is not the kind of tactic he'll appreciate right now.

"Nehorai," she drops her jacket softly on the armchair, "What is it?"

The boy is frozen, his lips pursed, his fingers entwined, but doesn't give away anything; she softens her tone, turning to Hebrew, "_Nehorai, daber elai, ma yesh_?"* She knows using their common native language helps him opening up. Gives them both an odd sense of comfort.

The boy sucks in a breath, his eyes move to lock with hers, and they're frightened, haunted, "No'am called few hours ago…" he answers softly in Hebrew, ignoring her arched eyebrows, "He says that…"

"That?" she urges gently, "What did he want?"

Licking his lips, the child exhaled, "His voice, he sounded scared, he told me that we should leave. Both of us, we should go away because they're after us." He stops there.

Ziva bites her lower lip, her facial expression undefined, "No'am says a lot of things," she shrugs, "We've faced bad things many times, Nehorai; and we never ran. We are no runners."

The boy's head drops slightly, detaching, not looking at her. His body tenses, his nerves on edge, "He was scared, Ziva," the boy admits, "I don't know why," he gulps, "But I know you do." His tone doesn't blame, all factual.

Ziva sighs.

"I know you're trying to protect me, Ziva" Nehorai emits, his voice shadowing Ziva as she rises up to put her cup of tea in the sink, her back to him, "But you said yourself, that I have a 'mature mind'. That I can deal with grown-ups issues. No'am was scared. He told me that I should escape, because it's unsafe here. Why? What is going on? Who's after us?"

Hesitating, not knowing what to do or say, she almost freezes. Yes, she knows Nehorai to be a wise young boy, God knows he dealt with things, horrible things, that shaped his personality and created a small hero. His young eyes have seen things that no child should see, he survived such unbearable pain that no one should muddle through.

But this?

How can she tell him about this? This is just insane.

But then, she remembers herself as a child- following her father's footsteps simply because she didn't know any better, didn't ask many questions back then.

She could tell at times, though, when her father tried to paint reality so it would fit perfectly into her world. Eli covered facts with lies of silk and wrapped the truths with a blanket of deceptions.

She doesn't dare to do the same to Nehorai.

Turning around, she goes back to the table, sitting down.

Nehorai gulps, his cheeks flushed red with heat and anxiety, blinking furiously. Ziva's hand reaches to cover the boy's small hand with her larger palm, as she soothes his delicate knuckles, trying to calm the boy.

It helps. Really, it does.

But he still needs more than that. "For the past few months," she starts, "your cousin No'am was settled in Beit-El and Binyamin area to help uncover a hilltop movement they believe is active there."

Nehorai frowns, "They?" he asks, "who are 'they'?"

"The _Shabbak_" Ziva gives away, knowing what will be the following reaction.

Nehorai's eyes widen, "_The Shabbak_?" he cries, frightened, "Ziva, no! He will _never_ help those men! They're _horrible awful people_! I've seen on television what they do, they take boys and girls and beat them and lock them up and you never hear from them ever again!" he shakes his head violently, refusing to grasp what she just said.

"No'am knows they have their faults. This is how security works, Nehorai; But he is not stupid. They sent him there to catch some people who did very bad things, who put many other innocent people in danger. Do you understand?"

Nehorai's fingers pass through his soft dark locks, then he asks, "So, what does it all have to do with me?"

Ziva leans back in her chair, "I don't know the exact details about the clashes between the _Shabbak_ and the boys on the hills. I know No'am's job was to uncover their inner terrorist cell and to bring the information to the Shabbak. But I also heard something else. That he discovered information about a Palestinian terrorist group who's active outside of the Middle-East. I don't know how he managed that, but he found out about them. The information is accurate. They are active outside of Israel, too."

"In America?"

"That is possible."

Nehorai considers, "And that is why No'am told me it's unsafe here? That we should go? He thinks they're in Washington?" he probably is missing something, because even to his young ears, this doesn't make any sense.

"He was caught red-handed both by the _Shabbak_ and the boys on the hills, Nehorai," she concludes, her tone definitive, "As I said, he is not a stupid man, but he is quite paranoid."

"I don't like this," he shakes his head, "I wish No'am never got involved with those people. They're up to no good."

Ziva doesn't respond to that, but rises up from her chair, back to the kitchen, as she starts boiling some water, "I'll make you some tea," she says, it is not a question, "then you're to go to bad. It was a long day, and you need your rest."

* * *

The phone rings, as Gibbs picks it up, after checking the caller's number, "Hey, Ziver," he greets quietly.

A frustrated sigh is the response, "He knows something is up," she goes straight to the point, "I couldn't bring myself to lie to him, but I couldn't reveal the complete truth, either."

Gibbs leans back into his chair, darkness envelops his silent dwelling, "You're doing what's best for him," he offers hoarsely, "and it's not simple. You have your own instincts, and we know that most of the time, they're not misplaced."

Ziva exhales, "I don't know what to do," she admits, "he's such a clever boy, he reads me perfectly, but for the first time in my life, I cannot bring myself to decide on the right choice, I can't ignore the grey line."

He hums in response.

Silence.

"They know nothing about him, right?" The former Mossad agent ensures, "Tony and McGee?"

"I gave you my word, Ziver. But they do realize there is something," he notes, "You should talk to them, even if to just keep them calm, they're worried."

"I know," and she does. Really.

She just can't bring herself to worry about that right now.

"He's finally asleep," her voice calms, then, "I wish…. I just wish I could do something more to help him."

"You're giving him a rooftop, a warm bed, a meal," Gibbs responds, "That what he really needs right now, and he gets it from you. You'll be fine, Ziva," his fatherly voice encourages her, "Don't overwork yourself. Listen to him. You'll manage."

A soft sigh follows, and then, "Thanks, Gibbs," her voice is shaky, "For listening. For being there."

"I'm always here for you, Ziver."

* * *

**...TBC...**

***Translate: "Nehorai, talk to me, what is it?"**


End file.
